


The Distance Between

by NicoleNostalgia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Loveless Marriage, M/M, One Shot, mostly historically accurate i think, wrote this for amino based on a request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 08:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16322318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleNostalgia/pseuds/NicoleNostalgia
Summary: John is at war, Martha is an ocean away, and he's glad of it. That doesn't stop the guilt from creeping in.





	The Distance Between

 

 

_"My Dear Girl."_

The words stared back up at him, ink thick where his hand had lingered through the words. He struggled to write at all, much less to write lies. Elbows starting to ache from how he was resting them on the lap desk, he leaned back. His back brushed the back of the tent, muscles crying out in relief. He wasn't sure whether if it was from the constant work of war or if he had been hunching over the desk longer than he thought he had been. Probably both.

His eyes slid to the letter from Martha; her script was light and straight. Letters from her were always more affectionate than the ones he sent, although he felt as if a lot of it was false—simply what was expected of her as a wife. That and, what worried him more, she might be reaching out.

She—they had a child. He had married her to do the right thing and then abandoned her with child. He might not, would probably not, see Martha again.

He picked up his quill again. He wrote about the war, something vague and distant on how it was going. His involvement at least. It wasn't much, two paragraphs at most. He dipped his quill again and hesitated.

Something else. Rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand, he let out a sigh. Right, he couldn't leave it at that.

" _I'm pleased to hear you and Frances are well, considering the current circumstances. Give your family my gratitude for giving their time to make sure you are well. I trust you are taking care of your health as well."_

And he lost any other words he might have written. Guilt ground at the back of his mind as he wrote some half-hearted closing, signed his name, and readied the letter to be hidden among the others in need of sending.

 

* * *

 

Alexander had come into the tent late, weary from work but more than eager for downtime with John.

They were lying together, Alexander having pulled John to him once they had settled down for the night. John's head was on his chest, the guilt still burning. Alexander was talking about something, chest rumbling with his words, but none of them were reaching John. He was distracted.

He had sent the letter off among the others—after a near incident with Alexander where he had tried to glance through them. John had panicked, far more than necessary, and he could still remember the look in Alexander's eyes as he snatched the packet from him. Distrust. He'd never seen that in those dark eyes before.

 

* * *

 

" _My husband,_

_I am happy to hear that both you and your ambitions are going well. My father has been doting on me and begs you not worry._ "

Her health was still fragile and John couldn't pick apart if she was telling him not to worry because it truly was improving or because it was worsening. He didn't know her well enough to sense any falsehood in her letter.

"I hope we might yet get to America to be with you once this illness has passed. Our Frances surely longs to meet her father."

The name of his daughter was still a sting—not that Martha had known. Nonetheless, the thought of them coming to America felt like a weight on his chest. Not a man in camp knew he was married; he was trying to escape it. He would receive admonishments when—or if—they learned, and then they would move on. But Alexander...

He folded the letter and stuffed it under the deteriorating pillow he called his own. Meade was sitting across the aide's shared room; he cocked an eyebrow.

 

* * *

 

They were on the bed in the small room they shared, Alexander in his lap—just another one of the many things they wouldn't have been able to explain away had someone walked in. Alexander was facing to the side, his cheek rested on John's shoulder. They had been silent for the most part since they had made their way inside.

"You've been acting strange today," Alexander said, voice hoarse from the sickness he was just recovering from. What he really meant was that John had been moping and distant. "Bad day?" he asked. He knew John had "bad days" often, just didn't know all of the reasons why.

"Yes." Pressing his nose to Alexander's hair, he breathed him in. Jasmine, from his pomatum. It calmed him just enough, kept his mind off of the letter he had received from Martha earlier. It had been an implication, nothing direct, but she had gotten across her notion: he didn't write back quickly enough. When he did write back, he didn't write long enough letters. He didn't show affection. She hadn't said it outright. An implication. He got that implication from a lot of people.

He held Alexander a little tighter.

 

* * *

 

" _My dear Martha._ "

An opening, three paragraphs about the war and his personal goals. He had drawn out the descriptions but the whole thing was still... lacking. The words were stiff and uptight, like he was writing to another soldier rather than his wife. It lacked affection. If she could fake it, so could he.

"Are you alright?"

John looked up and, across the table, Tallmadge was watching with concern. It took several long seconds for him to recognize that he was gripping his quill so tight that his knuckles had paled. "I'm fine." He put his quill to the paper once Tallmadge had looked away. He had never been a good liar. His stomach twisted and churned and he wrote the very opposite.

" _I can never love you._ "

It stung his eyes to read it. It was a truth that should never have left his mouth or hand. His free finger picked at a dent in the wooden table, other hand aching with the grip.

" _I don't want to see you again._ "

He had tried to help see her to America; that hadn't meant he had wanted it. He remembered the relief when it was decided to be too dangerous. He remembered Alexander noting that he was in a better mood than he had been in for weeks. That notion stuck in his ribs and hadn't left since.

" _This was a mistake._ "

He dropped his quill with his last words, snatching the letter up. He swung his legs over the bench, one after the other, stood, and tossed the parchment into the fireplace. He could feel Tallmadge's eyes boring a hole into his back.

"Are you sure you're alright?

 

* * *

 

John hadn't intended for it to happen. He hadn't thought himself due another letter from Martha or her family—not before he was back in camp. He left Alexander with the request of looking through any letters for him misdirected to the camp while he was in South Carolina. Alexander was to forward anything he deemed important and hold the rest.

The letter that came to haunt him was Alexander's. It had started off as usual, if not more affectionate than usual. He went over John's previous letters to him, full of praise, and then it came.

" _I anticipate by sympathy the pleasure you must feel from the sweet converse of your dearer self in the inclosed letters_."

It wasn't fury that followed, more like betrayal. Alexander didn't trust easily and John had lied about something far from minor. His mind was clouded for the rest of his time in South Carolina and he was sure he'd make himself sick with worry. It didn't matter that the letter had ended with an assurance that what was between them wasn't over.

He rushed back to camp—as much as one could rush a long trip. He made it back and Alexander was withdrawn until they had a moment alone and John spilled what felt like his life story. Francis, Jemmy, Martha. On any other occasion he would have hated the pity, but he shattered when he was held, kissed, and forgiven.

He had never heard that before.

 

* * *

 

She was gone. The letter came early in the morning before they were even dressed. John had known from the first words what the message was. Martha had succumbed to illness. Their daughter Frances would be taken care of by Martha's family until either John could send for her or his sister could take on caring for her.

The tears were sudden, hot and wracking his body. Unsure where they had originated from, he only knew he hadn't sobbed so hard since... since he realized that he would have to marry her on top of everything else he had been going through.

Alexander never asked what the letter was—he probably recognized grief when he saw it. Or guilt. He grabbed John and pulled him into his arms; John allowed it, his nose buried in Alexander's neck.

She hadn't deserved any of it.

 

* * *

 

_Those years ago, sitting on the bed in that cramped room with her—he remembered it vividly. Her hand clasping his, she had said, "I know this is far from ideal."_

_All of it. The pregnancy, their marriage of two hours, the fact that they felt nothing for one another. Well, she had felt attraction; she had also noticed his lack thereof after their mistake. Whether she had put two and two together was irrelevant because she knew that it wasn't even a marriage of attraction. They both knew it would have taken an inane amount of pressure for John to ever touch her again, no matter what was expected of them._

_She had leaned into his shoulder and sighed. It was not as if she had wanted to wind up married to him either. "It might not be, but we'll make it work," he mumbled. He hadn't meant it. He was already planning to go join a war, he could die in it. Even at that time, he knew she didn't believe him either._

_"We will," she lied. The dark room had been cold and she pulled her robe more tightly around her. Then she had released his hand and stood. Turning and facing him, she reached out her hand once more, taking his and guiding it to her stomach. It was far more obvious in only her chemise that she was with child. "One good thing might come out of this," she whispered and when he met her eyes, they were begging this of him. Just one thing._

_The way his heart thudded in his chest as he pressed his palm against her stomach surprised him. It was ironic—he had never wanted a wife, but a child..._

_He had leaned in and pressed his forehead to her stomach; Martha's other hand cupped the back of his head. Her body shook with tears he couldn't see. "What should we name our child?" It was the kindest thing he ever said to her—it had been real._

He knew he would likely never meet his daughter.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a request on the Hamilton Amino. Shockingly, I do want to take more requests even though I'm working on a very long, full-length fic for Hamilton too ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> The only real quote is the one by Hamilton (with the misspelling and all!).
> 
> Yell at me or request more one-shots on my [my main tumblr](http://nicolenostalgia.tumblr.com/)  
> Also feel free to check out [the sideblog for my upcoming fic](http://witheyeslikethefullmoon.tumblr.com/)


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